


Out Into Colour

by Regency



Series: Other Lives [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Beware the anachronisms, Damn The Hour!, F/M, Gen, Infidelity abounds, John does, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Sherlock in Love, The G-spot may or may not be a thing--Sherlock doesn't particularly care, The cases are secondary at best, When I say 'nerves'...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. In the 1950s, Sherlock has been blessed with a life of relative ease, married to a woman who is besotted without interfering and free to do the work he enjoys. Then, there is Dr. John Watson, who treats Molly's nerves with a kindness Sherlock cannot replicate, who makes her smile shy as a tormented cat in response to love. John could be a temptation Sherlock cannot resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awfully Wedded

**Author's Note:**

> You’ve got _The Hour_ to thank for this, particularly Andrew Scott’s character. He inspired the whole thing. Also, please keep in mind that this relates to Molly’s character as characterized in seasons one and two and not in three. I started this a long time ago. Molly will grow. This may not be her story, but I do love her and want good things for her.
> 
>  
> 
> If you guys wanna talk/flail/flop with me on Tumblr, I'm [sententiousandbellicose](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com).

                Sherlock slicks his hair to please his mother.  When she is dead, his brother.  His is naturally an unruly head of stuff that bucks all attempts at decorum, much as the man himself.  He’s an invert, a fag, a deviant, or some such bizarre name to say that he wants what he should not in an age where to have it means his life.  This marriage, his marriage, the one he will enter in today, was made by his brother’s corpulent hand.

                _“It is for your safety, brother dear.  With a home and wife, people may talk but not_ too _loudly.”_

_“And you, big brother, what will they say about you?”_

_“Nothing, if they value house and hearth,” spake the shadow with a knife._

                One family, two queers.  A solution for one, a life in deep hiding for the other.  In the moments before he dons his pressed tuxedo and cummerbund, Sherlock comes closest to believing in the power of sacrificial love.  The day reeks of agápe.

                Mycroft’s upright countenance invades the chapel’s full-length mirror over Sherlock’s right shoulder.  “Dashing as ever, Sherlock.  And I’ve just seen, your bride is without equal.”

                Sherlock scoffed.  “Don’t pretend you’ve noticed.”

                “It’s my job to notice these things.”

                “No, I think you’ll find that’s down to me,” he jerks his blasted tie, “the consulting detective.”

                Those bloodless, pale lips stretch and twist like taffy.  _Is he ever happy?_   Sherlock has his reservations on the matter.  “So it is.”

                “You’ll be forced to take a wife at some point.”

                Mycroft’s flexes his pristine hand over the handle of his umbrella.  “I wear a ring and there’s a story written, somewhere.  No one of any breeding will ask me.”

                “Your superiors? Your _masters?_ ”

                “My superiors are fools to underestimate me, but not altogether fools, hmm?”

                “That’s for you to know and me to pretend ignorance of.”  Sherlock tugs at his restrictive bowtie.  “Dreadful.  Can’t I wear a standard necktie?  I’ll even do the half-Windsor Mummy demanded we wear.”

                “Afraid not.  The occasion demands a certain level of ceremony.  It is your one and only wedding, I should hope.  Let us commemorate the occasion in a fashion to similarly never be repeated.”

                Sherlock’s eyes snap to Mycroft as his brother reaches around to adjust his bow.  “You’re having a laugh at my expense.”

                Mycroft’s eyes are glimmering.  “When else would I have them?”

                Sherlock huffs, indignant and ignores him.

                They fuss with Sherlock’s impeccable attire for another couple of minutes before one of Molly’s nameless, effectively faceless bridesmaids come to tell them it’s time.  Sherlock falters, all rebellion gone, only bleak resistance filling up the hollow of his empty stomach.  _My entire life written in straight lines.  I’ve never thought in them, why should they be the way I_ live _?_

               “I don’t want it.”

                Mycroft sighs like Mother, all wood and ink essence in the weave of his lapels, honeyed tea on his breath.  This is not a man Sherlock can hide behind anymore.  The monsters are too enormous for big brothers alone.  The hand that finds his shoulder still feels that it might be strong enough to take on the world and win.  Sherlock tries to delete the sentiment from his thoughts, yet it refuses to leave him.  He prays it never does; it may be the only thing to carry him through.


	2. Word of Mouth

The first Sherlock hears of John Watson is by reputation.  He is little more than one of the pretty bits of gossip that Molly shares to fill the silence of their kitchen on mornings before Sherlock leaves for anywhere that isn’t home and Molly cleans as though the smell of lemon and the sparkle of glistening countertops will be enough to draw him back.  She tells herself three lies of that calibre before his first cup of tea each day.  He allows it; he isn’t altogether concerned enough to relieve her of her delusions.  Besides, he’s found gossip to be useful research for his investigations.  Women talk and wives tell.  Sherlock has found himself married; he may as well make some use of the inconvenience.

All through their engagement, Molly spoke endlessly of what her mother termed ‘her nerves.’  Sherlock had filed the knowledge away, curious despite himself, and disregarded much of the remainder of Molly’s laundry list of personal details.  Allergies, he keeps—hospital stays are inconvenient at best and he hardly thinks many are likely to believe he’d become widowed by mere chance.  He isn’t Mycroft, his art for normalcy was flawed.  He deletes the names of the children she’d like to have.  There will be none.  This isn’t a life where either of their desires will be much fulfilled.  He won’t see children brought in to share the misery.  He’s been one of those children.

                At any rate, it is gossip that brings John Watson to Sherlock’s attention.  Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, recently discharged after serving honourably on three tours abroad.  Sherlock doesn’t recall where, doesn’t care, but he takes notice of Molly’s tone when she speaks of the man.

                Sherlock memorizes the particulars of a Buckinghamshire jewel thievery to be followed up later before folding down his paper to glimpse his wife’s pale countenance.  Excessive pallor isn’t abnormal for her.  Molly burns easily in sunlight, though she begs off relief in favour of futile sunbathing.  Their honeymoon was a nightmare of her whimpering in the night from scalded flesh.  When they’d returned home early, Sherlock was relieved and Molly mortified.  He hadn’t been able to distinguish that from her usual state of being and had continued his business as usual.  Her mood today veers from the timid way she usually approaches their association.  _She’s attempting to lie to me._   Might his awfully wedded wife be so interesting as to court an affair this early on?  Some mulish part of Sherlock hopes she might if only to alleviate the tedium matrimony promises.

                Sherlock pretends at nonchalance.  “This doctor—Watson, was it?  Might he be the ticket to curing your latest attack of nervous fits?”

                Molly twists her linen handkerchief in her hands till they’ve blanched a damask of blood flushed and cadaverous-hued.  They betray her more readily than her averted gaze.

                “You claim that I don’t talk to you, but the moment I do, you clam up.  Which is it? Shall we have a life of witless, gutless repartee or one of oppressive silence?  I’ve got the stomach for the former if you have; the latter you’ll have to carry on without me.”

                Molly compresses her overmade lips into a line.  _Too prim for anger.  Dull._ “Dr. Watson treats...” Her nostrils flare alongside a flash of emotion in her eyes she fails to adequately supress.  Sherlock _notices_ that.  “He treats nerves, hysteria and the like.  The girls all swear by him.”

                “The ‘girls’?  Since when do you participate in gaggles?  You’ve never been especially sociable.  You’d have known better than to take up with me if you were.  Nobody warned you, because nobody cared.  So, dear Molly, do tell; what girls recommended the good Dr. Watson to you?”

                “I’ll have you know Sally Donovan swears by him.”

                “Sally Donovan is the mistress of a married man.  You should know better than to trust her judgement.”  Bored, he returns to his papers to see what smaller ventures await.

                Molly chokes on false starts.  “Irene Adler keeps his acquaintance.  You might consider her a fair judge.”

                Sherlock fixes his wife with a disquieting gaze to conceal the uneasy churning of his thoughts.  Irene is a topic best approached with more care than Molly appears to be capable of.  Irene is Sherlock’s only claim to ‘civility,’ to want of the feminine form.  _Leave it to idiots not to understand the attraction of the body for the mind._   No one save his brother has ever understood him.  His wife will have to find some other way to be exceptional.

                “Perhaps I’ll give her a call and see. It wouldn’t do for a charlatan to take you for a ride.”

                Molly stammers a denial.  “It’s nothing so obscene as that.”

                Sherlock lets false confusion shape his expression.  “Obscene?  I merely mean to keep him from cheating you out of our small fortune.  What did you think I meant?”

                Ruffled, his wife flitters off to clear the table, taking away his uneaten toast and jam and her picked-over eggs.  _Trying to lose another stone._   Sherlock sighs, despairing, and drinks his tea lest she dumps it in the sink.  He gets only one more sip in before she does anyway, leaving him with a damp spoon and a stain on his placket.

                _Thank you for the misery, brother.  May you share it in good time._

                Sherlock’s veins itch for a temporary solution to ease his burdensome situation.  Without it, he fears his sanity may not last the week.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Sherlock. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
> 
> If you guys wanna talk/flail/flop with me on Tumblr, I'm [sententiousandbellicose](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com).
> 
> ETA: Nov 09, 2015 My old computer ate the last year and half of fic I've written, which included a lot of progress on this fic and I cannot get it back. I lost thousands here and I'm trying not to think about how much elsewhere. It's not good. So the future of this story is even more up in the air than ever. I'm sorry. Thank you for reading and I appreciate your support.


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